


Phantasmagoria

by messyfeathers



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, Night Vale Scouts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3947011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messyfeathers/pseuds/messyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos expects a great many things when he finally is given the opportunity to investigate Night Vale, but the strange port town - and the scientist's even stranger benefactor, the enigmatic Mister Palmer - are nothing he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Update as of 03/06/18:** the first few chapters are now edited, expanded, and re-posted in preparation for updating this story!

“I don’t understand,” Doctor Vasquez insists. There are a great many things he doesn’t understand in this world after all. Admitting his ignorance is what gives him a thirst for answers, makes him a scientist. However, in this particular circumstance - facing the broad-shouldered older woman stubbornly planted in the doorframe of the shabby Desert Flower Inn, claiming confusion is merely a matter of etiquette and polite speech. Carlos Vasquez understands racism all too well. “Through our correspondence, I was led to believe we had an agreement. I was to lease adjacent rooms indefinitely for the duration of my stay. If this is a matter of payment-” he reaches for the pocket of his waistcoat where a collection of bank notes signed by the Royal Society lies. The innkeeper doesn’t allow for the show of good faith.

“There has indeed been a misunderstanding," the pinched-faced woman replies. "In all your letters, you failed to mention your” beady eyes scan the doctor head-to-toe “situation.” Carlos can vividly recall the way similar words used to sting, used to bring a smaller, brighter-eyed boy with a mop of curls to tears. Those same words had fueled him in the years since, driven him to excel through boarding school in London and then through university at Cambridge. They had inspired him to prove wrong everyone who had spurned him for his skin color. And yet here, in the tiny seacoast village that had spawned a hundred fantastic and strange rumors in the scientific community, he is denied housing on the basis of prejudice. For a brief moment, he considers pressing the issue. The smell of baking potatoes wafting from within the establishment is tempting to his empty stomach, the idea of a warm bed enticing to his travel-worn body. And after all, the inn had a written lease agreement with his superiors. But Carlos has learned to recognize the dead-set look of deep distaste in the creases of the innkeeper's face.

"Then I wish you a good afternoon, madam," he offers politely, a practiced smile forcing its way to his face. Without another word, the door slams shut, leaving the scientist on the stoop. As he steps back onto the paving stones of the cobbled walkway, he is struck by the realization of just how very far he is from home. His expedition to the little American hamlet of Night Vale, though long anticipated, had been unfortunately hastily planned. An unseasonably cold winter had left few options for trans-Atlantic passage before the onset of the stormy season, forcing him to rush preparations. As it was, he had already missed the last passenger steamer of spring by the time he had gathered the funds for the journey, and had been forced to endure a choppy two weeks aboard a cargo ship. The eight hours spent aboard the passenger coach - uncomfortably cramped and jostling as they were - had seemed heavenly in comparison.

Carlos adjusts his grip on the capacious leather handbag at his side. It holds only a meager handful of scientific devices, a notebook, and a spare change of clothes. The only other belongings to his name lie packed in a single steamer trunk scheduled for delivery on the next coach. The sun beats down, baking the stones beneath his feet as he glances either way along the empty street. The vacancy would seem eerie if Carlos’ thoughts weren’t preoccupied by mentally arranging his current list of predicaments into a solvable order. First on the list is the heat. With one last furtive peek in each direction to confirm no visible cause to impress, he quickly removes his overcoat and tucks it into the handbag. Fashion be damned, perhaps his critical thinking will be improved if he can escape the dreadful temperature that has settled upon the stagnant streets. There is no decided destination as he walks. He simply walks, his plans shifting with each click of his boots on the pavers. His stomach gurgles as he passes a bakery, reminding him of the long hours since his morning meal. Once more, he is tempted to enter, but even the roll of sanctioned bank notes that rests in his pocket is not as fat as it should have been had his commissioning not been a rushed affair. Instead he continues onward, searching the storefront of each establishment in passing for any sign of a room for rent.

It takes nearly a half mile's walk for Carlos to realize he is being followed. At first he thinks it is a play of the hazy afternoon light between the twisting architecture of the buildings. Then he assumes it is his paranoia; being a stranger in a bizarre and thus far hostile town could take its toll on anyone’s imagination, he rationalizes. What finally validates his suspicions is a muffled sneeze from behind a cluster of barrels in the alleyway directly to the right of him. When he finally turns to look, he is met by a set of wide, curious brown eyes. The ragamuffin can’t be any older than fourteen, dark hair ruffling out from beneath a patched cap.

“Good afternoon,” Carlos offers with a wary clear of his throat, hands instinctively tightening their grasp on his handbag. The spy says nothing in reply, but takes a few diminutive steps out from behind the barrels. In the sunlight he realizes the child is mixed race; further confirmation of this comes when she finally speaks, her voice smooth and flavored with the tones of the easternmost reaches of the British Empire.

“Doctor Vasquez,” she whispers, furtive glances turned each direction as she takes the final step to reach him. “I know someone who can help you. He can provide you with protection."

He can't tell if the shiver down his spine comes from her knowing his name, or the unnerving way she continuously scans the street as if anticipating a threat. “Protection from what?"

Her mouth opens and then immediately tightly seals as she shakes her head vehemently. After a moment, she continues, the clarity of her diction at odds with the her disheveled appearance. “His name is Palmer. He has the means and ambition to help people like us - the ones the town turns away.” The young girl raises a single bony finger to point north. The motion reveals a triangular brand marring the tawny skin of her wrist. "Follow the path north to the end. You will know his estate when you see it." Her expression shifts into fear as her eyes fix on something behind the scientist. "Do not stray," she instructs urgently before retreating into the shadow. Carlos instinctively glances over his shoulder to the still-empty cobblestone thoroughfare. By the time he turns back, his young savior is disappeared entirely. For a moment, he remains fixed in place considering his predicament. He is alone and exhausted in a foreign town whose only open boarding establishment has closed its doors to him. While trusting the instructions of mysterious street urchins seems a risky practice, she had seemed earnest - if strangely intense. With no other course of action readily available, Carlos begins the long, twisting trek northward.

It doesn’t take long before the garish storefronts and gaudy awnings give way to rickety structures, then small ramshackle hovels, then nothing at all. Even the few fields that spring up on either side of what has transformed from cobblestone pavers to a dirt path are strewn with thorns and thistle bushes. Almost in time with the change in surroundings, the sky shifts from what he could have sworn was a cloudless late afternoon to a darkening overcast gray. Just as the first drops of rain spatter his dark curls, Carlos decides he must be lost. Surely no one respectable would choose to live in such a desolate area. His hopes descend in time with the increasing precipitation until the road becomes mud and his thoughts, despair. With each step trudged through the thickening muck, Carlos envisions his laboratory back in London. It hadn't been luxurious by any means, but his heart aches for the bubbling of beakers, the smell of antiseptic, the warmth radiating from the flame beneath a flask during late nights of research.

His stomach complains once more at the lack of supper, drawing the scientist from his reverie. Behind the dismal, murky clouds overhead, the sun has nearly fallen beneath the horizon; the temperature too has fallen, cooling the increasing rainfall and chilling him to the bone. A survey of the way he had come confirms that the township is now far enough to escape his sight. In all directions the ground is covered in brambles and thickets and - to the east - the battered remains of a broken fence. Perched on the top of the single post still striving to stand at attention, a fragment of something flickers. Carlos squints through the sheets of rain in an attempt to make out the object. Curiosity outweighing his better judgement, he abandons the handbag and with considerable effort makes his way off the path in a series of squelching steps.

The shard is a fragmented remain of a looking glass. He discovers its edges are razor sharp when a bright flourish of red blooms from his thumb as he lifts the object for closer inspection. There is something inscribed in one corner. Carlos just makes out the scrawled shape of an eye etched into the smooth surface. His thumb brushes across the symbol, accidentally creating a crimson imprint. Suddenly something flashes in the glass - a dark reflection that flickers only long enough to startle him and cause him to lose his grip on the smooth object. The fragment is quickly lost to the thick black mud, but Carlos is far more concerned by the sudden oppressive feeling that he is being watched. Not surveyed by a single pair of young, curious eyes as he had felt in Night Vale’s streets, but pierced by dozens of unearthly gazes simultaneously. He whirls gracelessly in the sticky mud, equally relieved and terrified to see the path still empty save his abandoned handbag.

"Paranoia," he says aloud to himself. "The cruel tricks of a tired mind," he explains, unconvinced of his own diagnosis of the situation. A shiver runs through him regardless. "Stop being silly, there's nothing there," he mumbles, turning once more to confirm the statement. The rain has become a downpour. It drowns out the sounds of his hunger, but above the steady backdrop of the rainfall he can hear another sound building. It sounds like whispers - layers of rough voices he can't quite make out. The girl's words echo back to him with alarming clarity. He has strayed from the path.

Again, he feels the heaviness of too many eyes upon him. This time the fear overwhelms his logical assessment. Blind, inexplicable panic spurs him back to the road. Snatching his satchel up with no heed for the path’s slurping suction, he runs from an unknowable pursuer. The muffled whispers grow impossibly louder as he stumbles onward through the deluge. They are too close, and getting closer. Just as desperation begins to seize his muscles with an adrenaline grip, the path juts sharply to the left. He nearly trips to make the angle, and again as he is abruptly stopped by the sight before him. A sprawling mansion too close to have been unseen by the road. Logically it should not exist where his vision claims it exists. The girl had been right. Somewhere instinctive, he knows this is his destination. No sooner has he crossed past the border of the estate than the sounds of pursuit vanish. Carlos chokes a breath, staggering up the steps off-balance as if a tangible weight was suddenly removed from his shoulders.

Even in his frenzied state, he recognizes the grandeur of the building. As he desperately slams the ornate brass door knocker, it occurs to him that he must be quite a sight, drenched by the rain and panting from the dead run. Illogical though it may be, a pang of embarrassment rushes through him. Carlos musses the flat, saturated tangles of his hair in a futile attempt at professionalism. His clothing is woefully caked in mud. As he waits, he attempts to slow his breathing, calm his mind. There comes the sound of harried footsteps from within, several solid clicks of turning bolts, and then the door flies open.

The man on the other side is scarcely more put together than the still-dripping scientist on his doorstep. Short ashen hair is curled into a whipped frenzy; half-moon glasses lie askew across a narrow face smattered with copper freckles. The man’s dressing gown and slacks are an outlandish combination of silks and cottons and garish patterns clearly not selected for their compatibility. Everything about him seems at odds with itself, which unnerves Carlos in a way he can’t quite grasp. And as the man takes Carlos in with a single glance of his own, he suddenly smiles as if he holds a secret.

 


	2. Discordant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos seems to have found a benefactor, strange and incongruous as Mister Palmer may be..

"Vithya said to expect you - much earlier, mind you," the strange man chides as he unceremoniously pulls the scientist across the threshold by the sleeve. Carlos stumbles inside, still gulping deep breaths as his host resets a cluster of deadbolts behind him. The clicking bolts suggest to the scientist that perhaps his fear had not been entirely in vain. "I nearly left in search of you, but here you are all the same," the other man sighs, content once more with the security of the door. As he leans against the frame, amber eyes take the scientist in with more detail. Carlos straightens beneath the scrutiny, desperately regretting his bedraggled state. An unreadable, placid grin instantly reappears across his host's face, and he hurriedly wisps creamy wayward curls back into place. "Cecil Palmer," he announces as an afterthought. The man's voice is deeper than his slight appearance would suggest and carries a hint of an English accent so slight that Carlos wonders if he imagined it. A slender hand extends as he continues, "Orator and all-around journalist of sorts."

Given his earlier cold welcome to Night Vale, the scientist is slightly taken aback by the gesture. After a beat, he reaches for his hand, and is surprised to find it refreshingly cool to the touch. "Doctor Vas-Carlos Vasquez. I'm a scientist." Palmer nods enthusiastically, but Carlos still feels the need to justify his situation in light of the state of his appearance. "Night Vale is quite the scientific oddity. Word of it has reached as far as London. I've come to figure out what exactly gives it such a curious reputation. My coach from the seaport only just arrived this afternoon."

Immediately his host's face flushes a spectrum of pale crimson hues. "To think that our little berg has piqued the interest of such a brilliant mind," he babbles while leading the scientist into a sitting room off the foyer. Carlos casts a glance around the darkened entryway as he follows. The interior of the manor is as ornate as the exterior suggested. Mahogany trim in the sitting room glimmers in the faint light of wall sconces, the soft burgundy of the wallpaper accentuating the atmosphere of warmth. "I do hope you had a pleasant journey finding us," Cecil continues, prodding the first flickers of a fire to life in an ornate hearth of carved bloodstone. Carlos follows the etched lines and curves with a glance, casting his gaze in turn to the vaulted shelves on either side of the bare mantel. The shelves house various crystalline objects, each delicately crafted into creatures from both myth and reality. Carlos' attention remains impolitely fixated by a tiny glass kitten peering up at him with an eerily piercing gaze. The intensity in the eyes brings to mind the same unsettling impression of watchfulness from the road. Carlos shivers involuntarily. "Would you care for something to warm you from that dreadful rain?" Cecil offers. The scientist forces a smile as he turns intentionally away from the collection of figurines.

"A drink would be very appreciated."

The warm liquid is foreign to the scientist's tongue, but a single sip burns through his nerves with enough fervor to combat the damp that still penetrates his clothes and curls. "Vithya informed me of the events at the Desert Rose. Positively disgraceful - and to think, for years I have spent my Thursday evenings there with a pint and a pack of cards! I will not be darkening that door again, you can be sure," Mr. Palmer declares between amber sips as the two settle into a pair of chairs facing the hearth. Carlos self-consciously perches on the edge of the seat to avoid staining it with mud. The entire day's events combined with his hunger cause the scientist's stomach to roil. Before responding, he takes another sip.

"Is Miss Vithya in your employ then? I failed the opportunity to properly thank her for her timely rescue this afternoon. I'm not sure what I would have done were it not for her kindness and your hospitality."

Cecil's lips tilt into a bemused smirk. "Not precisely. My scouts come and go to bring me news of town, the occasional crate of coffee when the ships come in from the East," he pauses to swallow the remainder of liquid from his tumbler, "every now and again a scientist." For reasons he can't explain, Carlos feels a faint flush creep to the tips of his ears. Out of precaution, he rests his glass cautiously on the oak table between them. "However I keep no staff in my direct employ," Cecil continues smoothly. "But ah, Vithya - the powers that be have marked her for great things. Of course, her former owners were unaware of that when they branded her," he muses. "Thought they were merely marking another slave in their vast inventory, I would suppose." A pause, then, "Rather fascinating, is it not, Doctor, that heaven can carry out its bidding through even the vilest behavior of man?"

It seems an oddly heavy subject for such a light conversational tone. Carlos cautions a peek at the man's face, illumined faintly copper by the hearth's glow. Again the impression strikes him of contradictions: given their surroundings, he comes from obvious wealth, yet the man lives alone and spends his fortunes freeing slaves and taking in bedraggled strangers. "Quite."

The house gives a creak around them as the storm outside commences in earnest. A crash of thunder rumbles with a low growl. The sound is threatening in its intensity, and Carlos feels his exhausted mind slipping back toward panic. The slow, intentional breaths he forces himself to take accidentally extend themselves into a yawn.

"You must be exhausted," Cecil realizes with a flurried apology. "I have a room prepared on the second story and to the left."

"I cannot thank you enough for opening your home to me," Carlos says graciously. "Your kindness is appreciated more than you know. I do not wish to be a burden, and come tomorrow, I shall attempt to set up a contact in the city. There has to be someone in this town willing to let me a room."

"Nonsense!" Palmer interjects with a wave of his hand. "I shall be glad for the company! I have already instructed Richard, another of my scouts, to fetch your belongings from the afternoon stage. If you like, I can take you to town in the afternoon to gather any supplementary tools you may require for your research. I have an unused room in the east hall perfectly suited for a laboratory." Palmer clasps both hands behind his back, failing miserably to curb his enthusiasm before it spreads across his face in a positively beaming grin. "At least consider remaining here for as long as you need?" The idea is so earnestly offered - Mr. Palmer so genuinely enthused at the plan - that Carlos finds it impossible to refuse.

Carlos allows himself to be guided up a grand staircase in the foyer and through a labyrinth of darkened hallways, finally halting at a door beside a floor-to-ceiling window. One final expression of gratitude is on his lips when a faint howl echoes against the rhythmic cadence of the rain. The scientist's wide eyes search the inky blackness beyond the glass, inexplicably fearful that even within the safety of the manor he will still be pursued.

"It's only the wind. You are safe now," Mr. Palmer soothes as he illuminates a sconce beside the door. The softness of the tone seems oddly personal, overly-familiar even - and yet, it comforts Carlos all the same. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Carlos is once more struck by the sincerity of his host. Cecil unlocks the door, and Carlos takes a step into the room. "Doctor?" The scientist turns back to his host. Cecil extends an apple to him, though Carlos certainly did not see it in his hand at any time prior during the evening.

"Thank you," the scientist replies, his mind too tired and his stomach too grateful to be confused by the gesture. "For everything."

Cecil Palmer's house is as charmingly dissonant as the man himself. The room in which Carlos carefully unpacks his few belongings contains an odd mixture of tasteful pieces and curious baubles. The same mahogany accents frame the room, with elegant furnishings to match, though the fabrics seem mismatched and out of sorts. Glass cases of pinned insects adorn the walls, and small porcelain figurines litter the dresser. The combination creates a quaintly comforting ambiance at first, but the comfort instantly drains to unease as Carlos extinguishes the candle on the nightstand and crawls into the four-posted bed. More than once he feels strangely watched by a pair of eyes he cannot entirely distinguish through the darkness. Despite his physical exhaustion, the discomfort paired with the thunderous winds outside effectively impede his ability to sleep. After what feels like hours, Carlos decides to find his way downstairs in search of a glass of cool water. His proper dressing gown still lies packed in the trunk to be delivered tomorrow, so he dons the nearly-dry lab coat rescued from his handbag to make the careful trek through the darkened corridors.

In the blackness, all is still save the storm's continued assault on the manor. Carlos has never had much of a head for directions, and without any visual guidance it is a struggle to recall the twists it took to reach the stairwell on his way to his room. The task is made harder when the hall splits ways at a corner he definitely does not recall having seen on his path. He pauses, debating which direction seems most likely. A few feet down the narrow hall to the right, a light shines out beneath the door. His curiosity is piqued by muffled words drifting from beyond the door in a heated debate. Only glimpses of the conversation manage to escape in full, and not enough for an accurate discernment of the argument. Carlos creeps closer to the light to better decipher the cause of the altercation.

"What a twisted sense of morality," an airy voice teases, venom tipping the edge of the affected humor. "Picking and choosing the darkness as if sins were exchangeable and subjective. I suppose," the voice purrs, "when it comes to sinners you _are_ the leading authority on the matter."

"Quiet, you," a deeper voice hisses in response. "I did not summon you here to be lectured on the nature of light and dark. You think I don't know the difference? You will do as you are told." The scientist takes a startled step back from the door as he recognizes the voice as belonging to Cecil Palmer, though the biting heat behind it sounds absolutely nothing like the soft, dulcet tones he used with Carlos. The scientist's unconscious backwards motion lands squarely on a worn board; the house exclaims in squeaking protest, betraying him as an eavesdrop. Without fully considering caution this time, Carlos quickly retraces his steps to his room, not stopping until he is tucked back against the ornate headboard. His heart's pounding seems exceptionally loud as he strains for any other sound. Beyond the window, rain pounds and wind howls and thunder rumbles; within the house, all is silent. Just as Carlos allows himself to believe his intrusion may have gone unpursued, he hears the faintest padding of footsteps cross the hall outside his door. A flicker of light passes nearly unnoticeably without pause, and he exhales a grateful breath as he bundles back into the scratchy sheets and waits again for sleep.

 


	3. Breakfast for Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huge thank-you to [wecanthavethat](http://wecanthavethat.tumblr.com/) for helping me work out the rough edges in this chapter!

He cannot remember _when_ he started running, but the snarling, snapping behind him quickly reminds him _why_. Brambles whip at his legs as he stumbles over the undergrowth with clumsy curses. He cannot see the shapes that pursue him - not more than a flash of teeth, the glint of hideous glaring eyes. The trees whisper as he crashes through, teasing and taunting him until he trips. The shapes are upon him then, holding him down, strangling his breathing..

Carlos chokes himself awake.

There is a weight pinning him to the bed from the waist down. His heart races in a panic as his mind projects the countless unseen terrors that haunted his restless dreams into the patch of empty space bearing down on him with force.  When he finally opens his eyes, it's almost more startling that it _is_ simply empty space.  The combination of the slight disorientation of the unfamiliar bedroom and the strange feeling of something resting on his lap has his heart racing wildly and his mouth dry as cotton.  The faint knock on his bedroom door is what finally nudges the train of superstitious thought back into a more reasonable track, once more grounding him in reality.  Carlos longs for his unarrived equipment to determine what sort of a gaseous substance could weigh down transparent space in such a tangible way.  He wriggles his toes, scrunches his knees up - tests the heaviness and finds it possible to still move beneath it.  In a swift motion, he does his best to shake the blanket in hopes of dislodging the whatever-it-is.  The slightest crystalline clink nearly goes unheard as he swings his legs down onto the floor.  By the time Carlos crosses the expansive room and dons his lab coat, the knocking has ceased.  A peek to the hall beyond confirms that the visitor at the door is nowhere in sight, but the scent of something savory wafts up the grand stairwell and through the cracked door.  

Carlos wishes for a bath to begin his first day fresh but settles for drawing open the dulled curtains.  The sunlight leaks through thick glass in buttery ribbons.  Dust dances through each beam in swarming specks, suggesting that the room has sat undisturbed for some time prior to his arrival.  Despite the presence of the sun, the sky beyond the window remains a dismal, bland shade of taupe.  It’s late in the day, even though Carlos feels as if he slept far too few hours.  The crystal face of his pocketwatch peers up at him from its perch against the candlestick on the bedside dresser; it too declares a time apparently incongruous to the position of the sun.  If he hadn't already been gently summoned for breakfast he would pause to study the phenomenon.  For now, he settles for reaching into his bag and producing a notepad and a pencil and scribbling down the supposed hour and a rough estimate of the sun's position.  

As he prepares for the day, he wishes again for some way to make himself presentable beyond the lab coat and the spare outfit he managed to cram into his handbag.  Even without the confirmation of a mirror, Carlos knows is hair is an undignified, matted mess.  His eyes too are in poor shape; even as he rubs at them to ease their heaviness, he knows they're bleary and reddened.  It isn't necessarily the ideal start he had hoped for.  Yet, as he makes his way downstairs - a task he finds far simpler in daylight than in the dead of night - he can't help but smile slightly.  The sound of clattering dishes leads him towards the kitchen where Cecil is busily slicing bread and setting each individual piece atop the stove burner in turn.  

"Good morning!" he chirps at the scientist's approach without looking away from his work.  "I'm afraid I'm not much for breakfasts - generally a cup of coffee is all I need to start the day.  But I thought, actual breakfast can't be too difficult to make.  After all, what is proper toast if not simply bread held upon direct heat until-" he finally turns toward his guest and freezes for a breath in the midst of his babbling.  The look that crosses his face is unexpected; Carlos can only categorize it somewhere close to awe, and immediately feels even further self-conscious of his appearance.  "Crisp," Cecil finishes after a moment.  He shakes his head as if resurfacing from an amusing reverie.  "You do enjoy toast?"

"Quite."  Carlos feels the need to say something more: apologize for his bedraggled state, thank his host again for such generous accommodations on such short notice, perhaps simply comment on the weather; but Cecil is quick to fill the quiet morning with easy conversation instead.

"You slept well last night, I trust?"

"I did," Carlos lies.  His head aches and his eyes feel like stone, but he doesn't wish to seem ungrateful or make himself any more a burden than he already has.  Belatedly the thought crosses his mind to ask about the strange pressing that woke him, but no wording for the question seems remotely proper enough to mention in conversation with a near-stranger.  Besides, he reasons, he can't study it until he is reunited with his trunk of equipment anyway.  

"Wonderful," Cecil beams with a bright smile.  “I have some business to see to this evening, but I can gladly help you set up your laboratory in the afternoon if you would like.  I’m very into science, you see.”

Everything about Cecil seems to prod at the scientist’s inquisitive nature as he watches, from the odd pallor of his hair to the garish outdated fashion of his dressing coat to the empty twisting halls around them that appear to have sat eerie and still for decades while the outside world progressed.  Carlos decides to latch on the first half of the statement, his curiosity piqued.  “What precisely are the responsibilities of an 'all-around journalist of sorts'?”  

Cecil gives a bashful little flutter of eyelashes as he places another slice of bread over the burner.  The growing pile of finished breakfast seems excessive, and Carlos is struck with the impression that Cecil rarely - if ever - has the need to cook for houseguests, and has vastly overestimated the requirements of the task.  “I like to gather news of town and from time to time submit it to the public entry column of the Daily Journal.”  He gives a small shrug.  “It’s something to do, and claiming to be a journalist sounds so much more enjoyable than claiming to manage an estate, which is just another name for living off your family's money.”  His nose scrunches in distaste, tilting his glasses off-kilter.

“And yet,” Carlos adds supportively, “You also have the voice for oration - and the means to support and care for street children.  It seems to me you’re quite the well-rounded enigma, Mister Palmer.”  Cecil downright blushes - _blushes_ \- at that, stammering a soft curse as he distractedly allows the toast to thoroughly blacken on one side.  

"It’s nowhere near as prestigious as a career in science, I’m afraid.”  He offers another genuinely sweet smile over his shoulder and Carlos can’t explain the somersault his stomach takes in conjunction.  It must be the residual nervous thrill of his arrival still settling in, he justifies.  

Cecil whips back around toward his work, busying himself with the breakfast while he continues the light conversation.  “Ah, and on that topic I was thinking that if we went into town this morning there's a lovely little shop we could visit.  They sell all sorts of herbs and flowers and tinctures, and I'm convinced you would find some use for them in your work here.  I myself can't claim to know any considerable deal about science just yet, but I do enjoy browsing their selection of teas.  Speaking of, I apologize for the lack of tea, or well, the lack of most anything.  Perhaps we can stop by the grocers as well to find some decent food?"  He pauses for a moment to examine the toast that is rapidly crisping itself on both sides and quirks his lips in indecision.  

"Carlos," he says, and Carlos shifts a bit uncomfortably.  He isn't accustomed to acquaintances addressing him by his first name.  Generally most everyone he comes into contact with prefers to pretend he was christened as Doctor, since it sounds decidedly more English, and therefore a great deal less ethnic than his Christian name.  "Would you mind reaching for a set of plates?" Cecil continues, pointing to the top shelf of the ornate wooden cabinet.  "I'd get them myself but.." he makes a show of reaching up, having to stand up on the toes of his jade moccasins to do so.  Carlos easily reaches the shelf, though he can't claim any great height himself.  One, two, and he's about to retrieve a third dish when Cecil gives him an odd, questioning look.  

"Will your other guest not be joining us for breakfast then?" Carlos asks in confusion.  Cecil mouths the words ‘ _other guest_ ’ silently to himself.  "I apologize, I didn't mean to eavesdrop last night, but you see I got turned around in the hall," he confesses.  "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."  

The color drains immediately from Cecil's face, abandoning his copper freckles to stand alone in stark contrast.  The final slice of bread patters from his fingers to the floor, and for a moment he looks entirely shocked before he can manage to piece together a neutral mask for his features.  

"There is no other guest," he clips as he ungracefully shoves the stack of toast onto a single dish.  

"I'm sorry, I just thought I-"

"Doctor Vasquez, there is no one else in this house. You are the first and only guest I have kept in years."  Carlos gives the slightest shiver.  There's something vaguely alarming about how quickly that voice can go from honey to ice.  Cecil swallows hard, removing a piercing gaze from the scientist to stare very fixedly at the wall in front of him.  The man's complexion has gone rosy from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, Carlos notes, though out of shame or frustration he cannot tell.  "If you'll excuse me, I have some appointments to keep."  It's slightly more courteous, but still cold enough to send a chill to Carlos' stomach.  

"What of town?" he asks lamely.  

"Richard will bring your things in this afternoon.  I will instruct him to restock the pantry as well," Cecil mumbles, escaping the kitchen in long, quick strides.  "I trust you will make yourself at home in my absence."  

And like that he is gone, leaving Carlos with a tray of toast and a mounting sense of confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shameless excuse for me to insert my favorite toast-centric quote from Eternal Scouts. 
> 
> I promise the excitement will pick up more in the next chapter. Plot advancement and all that!


	4. Introductions In Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carlos meets a business associate of his new benefactor

Being left alone in an empty manor house is decidedly less exciting than Carlos had anticipated. His explorations of the kitchen reveal nothing but empty cupboards; the dining room only further accentuates the house's disuse as every surface boasts a considerable collection of dust. The upstairs provides slightly more amusement as he wanders in and out of empty sitting rooms and a collection of small, bland quarters that he assumes once housed the manor's staff. One of the butler's chambers in particular captures his interest. A sink stands awkwardly in a corner to itself next to a long wooden desk built into the wall. A modest bed completes the small space comfortably. While he assumes arrangements should first be made with Mr. Palmer of course, Carlos decides to himself that provided the room is unused, it would make a far better living space and laboratory than the garish guest room he currently occupies.  
  
On the journey back to his assigned quarters, Carlos pauses outside a door. His instincts inform him that it is the door through which he heard his host's conversation the previous evening with the unknown guest. There is an unsettling air about the room, or perhaps Carlos is simply unsettled that Cecil would lie about whomever he had been arguing the finer points of morality with. The door tempts him desperately. A hand on the knob confirms that the room is unlocked, but Carlos does not open the door. Alone or not, he cannot seem to justify invading Cecil's privacy after the unexpected kindness he has been shown. Instead he turns intentionally away and exits the hallway. To take his mind off the strange behavior of his host, he draws himself a bath. It feels inexpressibly good to clean up from his long journey to Night Vale. Afterwards, his hair is still a matted mess despite washing, and he desperately wishes for a mirror in order to better arrange his curls. Gradually he revisits each of the empty rooms he had previously searched, but to no avail. Nowhere does he find any sort of looking glass within the house.  
  
"Damn," he mutters to himself. His head continues to throb ceaselessly, and his eyes feel heavy and swollen. In the absence of any other responsibilities, the idea of a nap begins to creep into his cloudy mind. A thought occurs to him to check his own dresser for a mirror, and he has just opened the top drawer when a soft jingle pulls his attention to the bed. A small glittering trinket tied to a bell rolls out from beneath the ornate four-post bedframe. Carlos reaches down and lifts the toy, sneezing as he brings it toward his face. A cat toy perhaps? He always had been allergic to the creatures growing up, but he hadn't actually seen any cats in all his morning's wanderings. With a shrug he replaces the ball to its position on the floor. A mewled feline complaint, and it is snatched back beneath the bed.

A cat indeed.  
  
Carlos presses fingers to the bridge of his nose to soothe the inflamed sinuses within. A nap once again tempts him towards sleep, but no sooner have his eyes shut than his door is flung violently open. A boy gasps a laugh as he drags his half of the scientist's trunk into the room. At the other end of the steamer is a broad-shouldered young man with hair the color of a maple in autumn. When he speaks, his sturdy voice is tinted with the hint of an Irish accent.  
  
"That right there is the reason I never start a journey with anything more than what can be carried on my person," he jokes to the boy as they drop the trunk against the wall with a thud.  
  
"My beakers," Carlos groans, fearing the worst from the crashing sounds. Both of the newcomers seem startled by his presence.  
  
"Apologies," the man says quickly. "I din't see you there. Earl Harlan," he offers. His hand is scarred and calloused when Carlos shakes it.  
  
"Doctor Vasquez."  
  
"That there is Richard," Earl nods toward the young boy who dips his head politely. "Master Palmer sent us with your belongings. He says you're new to town? Have you any idea where you'll be permanently staying?"  
  
"Here," Carlos stumbles. "I will be staying here as Mr. Palmer's guest." Mr. Harlan's demeanor shifts noticeably. Turquoise eyes narrow, freckles bunching into wrinkled rows on his forehead.  
  
"Man alive, I know Cecil had been threatening to open the place up, but I didn't think he'd ever actually do it," he mutters. "Forgive me, Doctor, but you look a bit peaky. I think we'll be going to fetch the groceries, then." He nods at Richard and in an instant they are gone, the door neatly closed behind them. Evermore curious, Carlos follows after the duo and watches as they haul a large crate of dried goods through a servant's entry and into the pantry.  
  
"You spoke to Mr. Palmer this morning, then?" Carlos asks.  
  
"Sure," Richard pipes up with a bright flash of teeth. "Gave me a gold coin if I made sure to bring you tea from the shop." The boy makes a proud show of placing said tea box on an accessible shelf.  
  
"Do you know where he was off to? I fear I offended him somehow."  
  
"How's that?" Harlan asks dully, clearly far more occupied by the task of unloading the crate of food.  
  
"We were having toast," Carlos begins. Earl straightens and stares at him for a long moment.  
  
"Have you not heard of the municipal wheat ban?  No toast.  You interlopers, _honestly_ ," he shakes his head in disapproval and resumes unpacking. Carlos would ask why wheat is banned, but the other man's disposition suggests it would somehow dissolve into an argument. He would rather avoid arguments with as many residents as possible on his first full day in Night Vale.  
  
"We were having toast," Carlos repeats, "and I asked about another houseguest. You see, last night I swear I heard a conversation between Mr. Palmer and an unknown voice."  
  
Despite the way Earl stiffens at the statement, his voice is casual as he asks, "What was it you overheard them sayin'?"  
  
"Nothing terribly interesting. But this morning, he denied that there was anyone else in the house, which is the part that confused me. I fear I said something wrong by asking."  
  
"Master Palmer is just a bit touchy sometimes. He values his privacy," Earl shrugs. "And anyway, he'll be back when he's finished his work." Again his mood has shifted visibly. The frown lines on his forehead have a decidedly more concerned look to them, even as he conveys nonchalance with his body language. "Richard, finish up with the groceries, I need to use the facilities. Meet you outside." Earl brushes right past Carlos with not so much as a polite goodbye. He takes the stairs two at a time and disappears into the upstairs halls.  
  
In his absence, Richard takes up the responsibility of conversation. "You're a scientist, yeah? Whatcha study?"  
  
"Science," Carlos mumbles. His attention is preoccupied in surveying the young boy. No older than ten, with ebony skin and a triangular brand to match Vithya's on the inside of his wrist.  
  
"Can you teach me?" Richard asks brightly.  
  
"I suppose I certainly could," Carlos replies, then fits in the question most satisfying to his present curiosity. "Have you worked for Mr. Palmer long?"  
  
"I don't work for Mr. Palmer," Richard chuckles. "I work for Master Harlan. All us scouts do!" Having finished his task, Richard flops against the wall next to Carlos, folding his arms to match the scientist's.  
  
"What does Master Harlan do?" Carlos presses.  
  
"Works for Mr. Palmer, of course."  
  
"Richard!" Harlan calls from outside the open doorway. How he left the house without notice is unclear to Carlos as both entrances are visible from his perch against the kitchen wall.  
  
"It's good to meet you, Doctor!" Richard grins as he ducks out the doorway.  
  
Resigned, Carlos makes his way back upstairs with every intention of sleeping this time. Curiosity tugs fiercely at his feet, guiding them past his room and to the chamber of the mysterious argument. Convincing himself that one peek is not nearly major enough of a violation to warrant guilt, Carlos tries the handle.  
  
The door is locked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am desperately sorry that it has taken me an entire year and some to update this. I psyched myself out of writing it due to some personal issues with my writing in general, but I do love this story and I will complete it in time. The less seriously I take it the more I enjoy it, and I'm getting back to working from a place of enjoying it rather than a place of requiring it to be perfect, so I expect it will be updated much much better from here on out, at least for ~~as long as I'm marathon-watching Downton Abbey~~ a good while as I remain inspired. 
> 
> thank you if anyone has waited for this update and still wishes to hear the rest of the story (I love you very much for still being here!). I've written some bits for far ahead, and I promise this will be worth it in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are two things I love, it's Night Vale and Victorian AUs. I've never written any combination of the two however, so this is a bit experimental. Feedback would be ever so appreciated! 
> 
> If you happen to enjoy this story and would like to howl at the void with me, I can be found at [ducktelepathy](http://ducktelepathy.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
